Whistling a Symphony
by Marzipan77
Summary: Set during the Season 4 ep "Serpent's Venom," Daniel is struggling with the build-up of loss in his life. Sarah Gardner was just taken by Osiris, very close to an anniversary Daniel is not looking forward to. The tension within SG-1 is getting to him. Perhaps there's a solution - a fairly easy solution - but it's going to take a heart-to-heart with his taciturn best friend.


Whistling a Symphony

By marzipan77

GEN

Missing scenes/tag for Serpent's Venom

Warnings: Some dark thoughts, references to grief. References many previous eps, including FIAD, Upgrades, Scorched Earth, Beneath the Surface, and The Curse.

"No one can whistle a symphony. It takes a whole orchestra to play it." ~H.E. Luccock

Daniel yanked at the thick book wedged on the upper shelf between Tyberg's _First Lessons in Sanskrit_ and _The Hindi Padavali of Namdev_. "Stupid … think I can … pull every ancient dead language … out of my …" He gave the tome one last tug and then froze.

Beneath him, the step stool creaked ominously and seemed to shimmy under his weight. Half his weight, anyway. The toes of his right foot were curled under in his boot as if that could help him cling tightly to his perch in the few inches of space on his bookshelf's fourth ledge. Dammit. Phoenician. They'd never needed Phoenician – never thought they'd need Phoenician. So, of course his books on the dead Mediterranean language were shoved into the most remote, hard to reach places, thick with dust and crud and – he shuddered – other things.

He could do this. Daniel closed his eyes, willing the tickle, tickle, tickle, burn in his sinuses to leave him alone, just for a little while. One good sneeze was liable to pull him from his perch and send him to the infirmary rather than on Selmac's mission.

The step stool held, his foot steadied, and, ignoring the cramps in his legs and the tightening of his chest, Daniel opened his eyes and jerked the book free. Dust motes dancing around his head, he stuffed the book under his arm and fought the urge to breathe long enough to clamber down to floor level. Then, sprawled in his desk chair, glasses flung to the side, he buried his face in his crossed arms and set his abused sinuses free.

Twenty minutes later, completely sneezed out and hands and head thoroughly doused in the nearest restroom's sink, Daniel raised his head and stared hard at his red-eyed reflection. "Nice," he muttered. "Taken down by dust. Selmac would be so impressed." Hands braced on the white porcelain, he tried to find the lingering burn-mark leftover from Osiris' hand device, but, in the space of a week it had paled completely. Breathing carefully through his mouth, Daniel took stock. Head: barely pounding. Eyes: dry but bearable. Sinuses: decidedly displeased. Throat: fine after a few more gallons of water. He watched the water trickle down from his hair, along his jaw, and then disappear into the already soaking neckline of his t-shirt.

Situation normal. All f-ed up. He grunted. And Jack said Daniel hadn't learned a thing from the military.

'Decidedly displeased.' It sounded a lot like a description of the SGC's opinion about a certain archaeologist lately. Jack, Janet, Sam, Teal'c, Hammond – not to mention Paul Davis and the politicos in Washington who made a living looking over SG-1's shoulder and kibitzing. Janet was frustrated – sending him increasingly pointed memos about not taking his injuries lightly. And Daniel couldn't help taking Sam's latest series of brush-offs personally. She was … distant. As broody as Daniel had ever seen someone as open and outgoing as his teammate. General Hammond was curt – tense – locked up behind closed doors with Jack and the red phone for hours. Days. Poor guy. And Teal'c was still pissed about Sha'nauc – at everyone and everything. The smallest comment or suggestion seemed to set him off. Daniel nodded to himself. Yeah, he got that. He definitely got that.

Maybe Daniel was overthinking all this. Overthinking. Overanalyzing. Seeing relationship boogeymen when he should be concentrating on putting one boot in front of the other – metaphorically speaking. Just getting from day to day – from hour to hour – in this strange, bizarre, unbelievable thing that was his life. Tripping through meetings and translations and treaties and missions and the empty few hours he spent at his empty home felt a lot like maneuvering through minefields. Daniel's mouth twitched up at the corners. Oh, how appropriate.

No. Daniel shook his head. No. Things had changed over the last year – things small and large and – his breath caught at the memory of dark eyes and the scent of spice – and monumental. Loyalties had shifted, priorities had been forcibly adjusted, and the give and take of SG-1 had been jerked into a twisted parody of friendship. The comments were meaner, the stares sharper, and the silences heavy and smothering. If anything had torn away SG-1's happy mask of 'everything's fine' it had been that damned mission to P3R-118. In the mines beneath an ice-covered planet, their real personalities had also been buried under snow and ice, and the deeper, darker resentments had erupted to the surface. Carlin and Jonah and Thera hadn't exactly been friends.

Daniel grabbed a handful of towels from the dispenser and rubbed the coarse paper over his hair. It had been a crappy few months in a crappy year that had started with Sha're's death and ended with Sarah's kidnapping by Osiris just a week ago. Wife, mentor, colleague, old girlfriend – no one was safe if they had ever found themselves within arms' reach of one Daniel Jackson. He rubbed harder, the thick brown paper scraping along his skin like fine-grit sandpaper. Death followed him around like the cloud of grit and grime that billowed around Pigpen's feet - that character from Charlie Brown. Lately, it seemed just as tangible, just as visible, black and billowing. Teeth clenched, Daniel fought to hold back the avalanche of grief that hung, barely suspended, like a coverstone with one broken chain, just above his head. And, yes, there had been times when his pity party had been a thing of glittering beauty and dark splendor, but Daniel walked through these days with the reality of loss and death and defeat hovering very, very close. Watching. Waiting for just the right moment to fall.

And, lately, other people seemed to sense it, too.

He wasn't imagining the distinct cushion left around him lately. A wide berth. A buffer, if you will. Nobody seemed to want to get too close to typhoid Jackson– and who could blame them?

Even SG-1 was not immune.

SG-1 – once the tightest-knit team in the SGC, was coming apart at the seams. Drifting. Pulling back. Jack's desperation to get away to his cabin had been visceral, meaning he made sure that everyone around him could feel it. Sam had been taking day trips, actually requesting time off for the first time since Daniel had known her. Even Teal'c had shaken his robes out of mothballs and had decanted through the Stargate on some sudden need to gather Jaffa support. The poor guy probably just wanted to get back to a planet without mosquitos, Daniel figured, as this impromptu trip hadn't been provoked by any communication from Bra'tac or anyone else on Chulak. And now, Jack was stomping around, more surly and guarded than ever, his off the cuff comments to Jacob during and after the briefing a pretty big case in point.

Daniel pressed the soggy towels to his eyes, trying to stop the whirling images of Sha're, Sarah, and Steven – one dead, one brutalized, and one beaten. Rothman. Martouf. Shan'auc. Dozens of Russian scientists – he and Teal'c had found and identified and logged each man and woman. Alien Nazis, adolescent Unas. Another heartbroken archaeologist on another desert world trying again and again and again to gain some measure of peace with his long-dead wife. Despair tightened its claws in his belly and lifted its head to howl, screaming out the anger and fear and hopelessness that Daniel could never, ever, give voice to. A long moment later, fingers clenched painfully in his hair, his breathing slowing down from ragged pants, Daniel slammed the cracked and broken lid on his emotions and mentally stepped away. "Stop," he muttered sharply, "this isn't – damn it - just … stop."

A nice, uneventful trip through the galaxy in Jacob's cargo ship sounded like just what he needed. No old friends with glowing eyes, no churning guilt, no dead faces, or reminders of his failures – academic or otherwise. Yeah, he nodded to himself, archaeology was currently leaving as bad a taste in his mouth as the military mindset. If Daniel didn't see another canopic jar in a while, that would be okay with him. Being selected by Jacob and Selmac for a mission where all he had to do was translate a dead language he was largely unfamiliar with in the middle of an alien minefield near a meeting of two powerful system lords that absolutely hated him sounded pretty spectacular. Him, Jacob, a cargo ship, some alien tech, and a pile of dusty old books. And two withdrawn teammates. He huffed a bitter laugh. Heaven.

He twisted the sopping neck of his t-shirt, leaning over to drip a steady stream into the sink. Not many places to hide on a cargo ship. Curling up in an escape pod with a book-light was probably out of the question. Talk about obvious. Daniel frowned, one hand still clutching his shirt, eyes fixed on his reflection. That was a huge part of the problem, wasn't it? Withdrawal. Pulling away – going off on his own – their own - SG-1 splitting up into ones and twos for this or that or the other reason: it didn't help.

Worse, nearly one hundred percent of the time, it ended in tragedy.

If Sam had been there in Chicago – if Daniel had invited Teal'c along for the ride – either of them would have recognized the Goa'uld within Sarah before Osiris had been able to do so much damage. Or, if Sam had gone with Teal'c and Jack to the cabin, she would never have disobeyed Hammond's order to remain reachable. With SG-1 around him on Chaaka's planet, maybe Rothman and Hawkins and Loder wouldn't have died. Jack and Sam and Daniel would certainly have died trying their superpowers out on Apophis' ship if Teal'c hadn't come after them. And what had the Tok'ra said about Zatarcs? If the Goa'uld could divide their infiltration teams, isolate operatives – or teammates – they would truly conquer.

Sometimes it was necessary or unavoidable – Daniel got that. They each had their specialties. Their personal loyalties. Their own subjective priorities. Orders were orders, no matter how they sometimes made Daniel grit his teeth. With the military, the immediate – immediate orders, the most powerful man with the biggest mouth, the short-sighted search for more and more weapons - often overpowered the _essential_. The vital. The concerns and motivations at the very heart of human existence. Right and wrong. Acts of kindness. Each creature's worth within the universe. Daniel purposefully turned his thoughts from the nasty debrief after the Enkarren/Gadmeer situation. Daniel's essential had trumped Jack's immediate that day, and, although he regretted the distance it had put between them, the stress that had widened the team's fractures, he couldn't regret his choices.

Grief burned; a cold, hot dread filling Daniel's belly. They'd all made mistakes. Hurt each other. Said things in anger or despair that cut deep. Maybe that was the reason they were all pulling back. Sometimes one's best friends, the people who knew all of your secrets, who had been there for your best – and worst – moments, and could easily see the darkness behind your smile, felt like solid weights tied around your ankles. Daniel huffed out a bitter laugh. If he sometimes wanted to run, to hide, and to remind himself that there was a Daniel Jackson before the Stargate, a reasonably responsible adult who could attend a class or go to a freaking funeral without garnering bloody wounds, he figured his teammates felt the same.

"God damn it." Daniel balled the towels up in his hands and shoved them into the trash can. He shouldn't be so happy to be stuck on a cargo ship with only part of his team. He should be doing something about this – acting like that so-called 'adult' and talking to Jack and Sam at the very least – telling them how much he missed them in Chicago – how he'd felt the empty spaces at his sides, watching his back, in Egypt. Apologizing for his part in this distance between them. "Even if it makes me sounds like a whiny orphan who misses his family," Daniel admitted. Even so. They didn't work – SG-1 didn't work unless it was truly SG-1.

At least Jack had – sort of – invited himself along on Selmac's mission. Maybe he'd had the same realization as Daniel. Daniel shook his head. Hoping that he and Jack were on the same page was like throwing coin after coin in a deep, dark well and wishing hard. What was that lovely military saying? Wish in one hand and piss in the other and see which one came away wet.

"Okay, so, what are my choices?" he asked his reflection. Wait until this mission was over and then approach the team during downtime? If they got any downtime? Unless the next mission came up unexpectedly and pulled them all away again? He blew out a resigned breath. If there was one thing he'd learned in this job, it was that putting something off until tomorrow was a sure way to keep it from every happening.

A patch of blue in the mirror caught Daniel's eye. Right. First things first. He stalked over to stand, hands on hips, and stare down at the messy heap his jacket made on the white-tiled floor. Daniel pursed his lips and toed the offending garment with one boot. "I wonder if I could convince Siler that it's a biohazard, and get him to collect it," he muttered.

"Yeah, I doubt it."

Daniel's raised eyebrows pulled him around to face the door. "Jack?"

The carefully bland expression spoke louder than a thousand sarcastic barbs. Jack was leaning against the wall and looking Daniel over from head to toe. "Everything okay?"

Suppressing a slightly hysterical laugh, Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets and affected a nonchalant manner. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

He was met with a one-shoulder shrug. Two could play the nonchalant game, apparently. "Oh, no reason. Maybe the dustbowl billowing out of your office coupled with the muttering that slipped under the restroom door." Jack jerked his chin towards the crumpled blue jacket. "Not to mention your … casualty, there."

Daniel followed Jack's gaze and fought down a shiver. He hadn't meant it to be a symbol – some kind of analogy to the wreckage of SG-1. Smears of thick, brown dust, a tangle of cobwebs dotted with tiny white egg sacs, not to mention stains that were definitely made up of his own snot sneered back at him as if saying, "Oh, yeah, right. Sure you didn't."

He cleared his throat. "It turns out some of my Phoenician reference books were doing double duty as infectious disease vectors and dust rhino collectors." Jack's questioning stare set him to babbling again. "Dust rhinos are much bigger and tougher than dust bunnies."

"Ah." Jack swirled one finger to take in Daniel's entire person. "Hence the sink-shower tsunami."

"Yesss," Daniel hissed. Damn it. He wasn't even allowed to get away with cleaning up his own mess just once. Huh, analogy indeed. Daniel turned his back and lifted his eyes to heaven. Someone up there really hated him if this was supposed to be his 'opening,' his chance to talk with Jack. Soggy and congested, his mind on Phoenician declensions and whether he had enough Tylenol and chocolate in his pack, today's date on his desk calendar staring at him from behind every other thought – this should be easy. He crouched, arms resting on his knees, his hands still keeping their distance from the unholy thing in front of him. "So, I guess your meeting with Hammond went well?"

"Not … spectacularly," Jack admitted.

Daniel cringed. He'd hoped Hammond wasn't going to lay down the law again. He'd heard about Jack and the general's last 'meeting' from Janet – how Hammond had explained - with great length and breadth - how disappointed he'd been that Jack had taken the battery out of the phone he'd specifically requested Teal'c take with them to Jack's cabin. There had apparently been a guilt-laden sharing of Sam and Janet's mission reports, a detailed jaunt through Daniel's medical file, and some strong words about a commanding officer's duty, as well. If the past week was any illustration, a long space voyage on a cargo ship with a just-rebuked Jack O'Neill was not going to be a party for anyone.

The creak of joints and a resigned sigh to his right drew his eye. "Jack?"

Crouching beside him, the colonel poked Daniel's jacket with one finger. "‛It's dead, Jim.'"

The joke dropped dead next to the crumpled mess. But, Jack's tight anxiety – something mirroring Daniel's own, maybe – came through loud and clear. It was all a little too cliché – heart to hearts in the men's room. His gaze followed the set of his friend's jaw, the dark circles beneath his shadowed eyes. Tired. Jack looked so tired. Maybe this was the time after all. "So … I guess you were looking for me?"

"Guess so," Jack replied, eyes forward.

Ah, yes. Taciturn, thy name is O'Neill. "Any particular reason?"

"Oh, you know, the usual."

'The usual'? Over the years 'the usual' had meant everything from pizza and beer at Jack's house, a pie run on the mess hall, 'it's past time for your firearm/self-defense training, Daniel, don't make me drag you there,' or Jack's general 'I'm bored, entertain me' shtick. None of that seemed to apply here. "Let's pretend I don't know, Jack," Daniel gently prodded.

Jack flicked a glance Daniel's way before hooking one finger in the pile of blue fabric and crud and hauling it and himself to his feet. "C'mon. Not having this conversation in the damn men's room."

Daniel's eyes opened wide. Well, how about that. He shot to his feet and followed behind obediently, relieved. Jack wanted to talk – that was about as good a start as he could hope for. Unless … had he and Hammond come up with a reason for Jack to stay behind? Or Daniel? No, that wouldn't work. Maybe they'd scrapped the mission entirely. Had something else come up? Already? He stared at the back of Jack's head, wishing, for a fleeting moment, for some of those Atanik super-powers. Mind-reading would be nice.

"Geez, Daniel, stop thinking so hard. I can hear the wheels grinding from here."

Back in Daniel's office, Jack gestured towards the trash bin beside his desk and made a 'gimme' motion. Sighing, Daniel upended the thing, tossing crumpled paper balls, tissues, and chocolate foil wrappers into a pile and then tugging out the empty plastic garbage bag. He held the bag wide open, arms extended towards his teammate and head turned away until the offending garment had been dropped inside. Quickly knotting the ties, Daniel thrust the bag back at the colonel and brushed his hands over his arms, dislodging any residual gook and trying to minimize the amount of erupting goose bumps.

He slid into his chair, carefully keeping his eyes on Jack – watching him snag a passing airman and hand over the bulging plastic bag for transport to, well, the incinerator, Daniel hoped, but probably the laundry. He leaned back in his chair, placing the width of his desk between him and Jack, giving himself some room to observe, to make adjustments as necessary. Which Jack promptly negated, of course, by perching on the edge right next to him and sending one leg swinging.

Daniel lowered his head, fiddling with his discarded glasses, a jade worry stone that happened to be sitting there, before pulling the nearest open book towards him. "So. You were saying something about 'the usual'?"

Jack's hand came down flat, anchoring Daniel's fingers within the pages. Daniel looked up.

"I mean a couple of things, Daniel." Jack tilted his head. "Couple of things we need to talk about."

Jack seemed strangely still, oddly serious. No fidgeting or joking or impatient pacing. No beating around the usual shrubbery. Daniel tugged his hand free and started to put his glasses on – he always listened better when he could see – but they were still smeared and smudged from his earlier sneeze attack so he dropped them and sat back, arms crossed.

"I'm listening."

"Good. First, I apologize. For leaving you twisting when the whole Osiris thing came down." Dark eyes bored into Daniel's, the honesty crackling in the air between them. "I got my knuckles rapped but good by Hammond for that one." Jack knocked on the desk to illustrate his point. "Deserved it. Sorry."

Daniel frowned. "Jack – I –"

"Ah – ah." The colonel held up one finger. "No response necessary." A cloud passed over the familiar features, turning the veteran colonel back into Daniel's best friend. "And before your brain takes off again, I'm not saying you couldn't handle it without me. You did good, Danny, with a shit-crock full of trouble."

Daniel could only nod, words stolen by the rough edge of Jack's tone. And then he shook his head, anxious to argue about Jack's definition of 'good.'

His friend anticipated him – again. "The reason I wish I'd been there is not because I think it could have turned out differently. Better." He swept one hand through the air as if painting a new ending onto Osiris' tale. "But because I'd have had your six. Like you deserved. Like I promised a long time ago."

"I'm not –"

"Daniel."

Tongue twisting on the automatic responses about being a grown-up, a combat veteran, a man who can handle himself, Daniel stopped. Jack was making the exact argument Daniel had been considering back in the restroom – that SG-1 was better together, all the pieces fitting in perfectly to fill up each other's emptiness. Why was he arguing?

Jack nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think that whole reaction thing – the declaring independence thing – not just yours, but Carter's, too – is one of the reasons Hammond is breaking us up so much. Growing pains. See," he hitched his leg higher on the desk, "in a military unit, promotions come in pretty standard increments. Team members head off in different directions, learning all the aspects of command. Or they concentrate on one specialty. They don't keep highly successful teams together for years when each member could split off and train his own advanced team. Keeps egos in check, keeps people from getting lazy, complacent."

"Is that what's happening?" Daniel whispered.

Shrugging, Jack picked up the worry stone, rubbing callused fingers over the carved surface. "Maybe." His eyebrows danced. "I gotta tell you, being the one in command of a couple of certified geniuses who are damned good soldiers, and a guy who could have taught my grandfather how to fight messes with my colonel's brain. So." He dropped the stone and leveled his gaze at Daniel again. "I'm apologizing. Gonna change things." His hands made a breaking motion. "Unhook the chain of command and let you all in whenever I can. Start using the veritable wealth of knowledge in your brain, and Carter's," he affected a shiver, "better and pry out some more of Teal'c's expertise if I have to use a crowbar. What do you think?"

"I –" Daniel blinked, his mind tripping over itself to try to catch up. His thoughts hadn't even gone this far – just a realization of how much he wanted their team to get back on track – together. Jack was one step ahead. No. Daniel regarded the man in front of him. Jack was light years ahead, acting every inch the great commanding officer that Daniel knew him to be. "I think I'd like that, Jack."

"Good. Great." Jack smacked both hands down on his knees. "Now, on to the next item." Jack aimed a finger at Daniel's chest. "Mission with the Tok'ra. Never ends well, does it? Thoughts?"

Wow. Jack was … starting now. Actually asking his opinion. Daniel's eyebrows twitched. "Um, well, except for the fact that we don't know if I'm going to be able to translate the language, or if Jacob is right about Apophis and Heru'ur, or if Sam can reprogram the mine, or that this came up awfully suddenly when Teal'c was already out of the way, off-world –"

Jack's smile was warm. "Exactly what I said to Hammond."

"Really?"

The warmth turned into resignation. "Yes, Daniel. Look. I know it's been – that the past few months –"

"Year," Daniel interrupted. "It's been a bad year, Jack." October 8. He wasn't likely to forget it. His fingers tangled in the wire frames of his glasses, his gaze pointedly not moving towards the framed photograph to his right. He peered up through his lashes, watching as Jack thought back, flicking through missions, fallen comrades, grief, until he got back to – yep, there it was.

The older man rubbed both hands over his face. "A year. Next week will be a year. Shit. Can't believe –" He huffed and shook his head, his half-smile unamused. "Sounds like a long time except that it hits you right in the gut every single day."

That crowding wall of grief loomed closer, whispering tempting promises of silence and nothingness. Today – right now – Daniel looked away. Chose to live, to stay in the here-and-now with Jack and SG-1. He breathed deep and swallowed the worst of the guilt, watching Jack do exactly the same thing. Daniel never wanted to have this in common with Jack, but, sometimes, it felt right that this, this complete and utter sorrow, this guilt, was understood between them. "Right."

They shared a moment of silence, paying homage to memories of smiling faces and the feel of loving, trusting arms around them. As usual, Jack broke the spell first. "So," he put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Tok'ra mission. Lots of questions, very few answers."

Daniel nodded. "Does that mean we're not going?"

Jack quirked an eyebrow. "Since when do we ever 'not go?'" The air-quotes may have been implied, but Daniel heard them just fine. "I asked permission to call Teal'c back, but," he shrugged, letting his disappointment-with-the-orders hang in the air.

"So you're serious about this thing -"

"This thing is SG-1, Daniel. The team. Our team. One God damn spectacular team that has done monumentally terrific things." His eyes narrowed. "Not playing around, here."

"Me neither," Daniel agreed. "I guess I'm just shocked that we're on the same page – again."

Jack smiled and nudged Daniel with one swinging foot. "Even when we're not on the same page, Daniel, we're still in the same book." He glanced down at the Phoenician dictionary Daniel had shoved to the far edge of his desk. "Even if it's covered with grime and snot."

"Now that is good analogy."

"It is, isn't it?" Jack tilted his head proudly.

"So." Daniel crossed his arms. "Mission with the Tok'ra. Putting ourselves right in the middle of a minefield with two of the worst Goa'uld." He laughed and held his glasses up to examine the lenses. "Guess I'd better clean my glasses."

Jack's easy grace as he hopped down from his perch looked like relief – like the lithe movement of a man who'd released a burden. Or shared it with a friend. "Oh, how symbolic." He turned when he got to the door. "Seriously. Keeping our eyes open is probably the best advice."

"I'm still listening," Daniel returned the grin.

"Nice to know." Jack tipped his head and knocked twice on the door frame before heading out.

After the abysmal failure of their mission, after Heru'ur was killed, after Apophis' ships destroyed themselves giving him a means of escape, and after they all could breathe again when Teal'c answered Jacob's radio signal, Daniel found Jack in the back of the cargo ship, digging through the extra supplies he had insisted on bringing.

Daniel fell back against the gold bulkhead, shaking his head. "Guess we should have known."

Jack didn't bother to look up. "What, that no matter how many times we try, that damned snake-head Apophis manages to come back stronger than ever? Nope."

Daniel grunted. "'Galactic Badness.'"

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

"You did, sir." Sam stuck her head in from the doorway. "That's just what you said to dad-"

Daniel pretended not to hear Jack's sotto-voce 'Oy.' "Yeah, I think he knows, Sam."

She put her hands on her hips. "Now what, sir?"

"Now?" Jack lifted his rifle and slammed in a clip. "Now we clean our glasses and make sure we're listening extra hard. We're not home, yet."

She glanced towards Daniel's face and then back towards their commanding officer. "Uh, yes, sir. Dad says we'll be back to the moon and ready to head through the Stargate in under an hour."

Jack lowered his weapon and leveled a pointed stare in Sam's direction. "And what do you think, Carter?"

Daniel watched the change come over his teammate. He knew Jack hadn't had a chance to speak with her before they'd headed off through the Stargate to Tishnor's moon where Jacob met them with the ship. But, God, Sam was smart. So smart. Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, and, in a second she was giving him back his glare with extra added fierceness.

"I think we shouldn't assume that Apophis' ships are all following him. Not with what we know about his cloaking capabilities."

Jack smile was blinding. "Bingo." He jerked his chin towards the pilot's chair. "Go. Tell him to punch in the afterburners."

Sam's unreserved "yes, sir" sounded like coming home.

Jack set his weapon down – still very much within reach – and shrugged into his vest. "Not going to feel right until I've got my eyes on T and my hands on that damned DHD."

Daniel reached into the container and grabbed his pack and holster. "Any chance anyone thought to bring Teal'c's …"

Jack reached behind a shadowed strut and pulled out the staff weapon. "You were saying?"

As reunions went, Daniel figured it was … about par for the course for SG-1. Teal'c could barely walk unaided, even if his first words were reassurance about his symbiote's healing powers. And Daniel didn't miss the spark of life and surprised gratitude in those dark eyes when Jack handed over his staff weapon. Raknor – a strangely quiet and scarred Jaffa – was the recipient of a few sideways glances, but, ultimately took off in his glider to meet up with Bra'tac and the rest of the rebels. Jacob had grounded his cloaked cargo ship and left through the Stargate after a hug for Sam and a couple of warm – if apologetic – smiles for the rest of them.

That the four of them had to dive for cover a minute later to avoid strafing from two death gliders seemed almost anticlimactic.

"Danny –"

"Dialing up the Alpha site!" he shot back, scrambling for the DHD before Jack could finish his thought.

"Carter –"

Daniel didn't have to glance over to know Sam was down on one knee, sending round after round into the glider that had suddenly appeared. "Laying down covering fire, sir!"

Jack didn't even have a chance to open his mouth when Daniel heard Teal'c's staff weapon open and felt a blast aimed past his ear.

The teammates converged on the open wormhole, walking backwards, and firing unrelentingly into the smoking, whistling, diving death glider. Just before Daniel felt the tug of the event horizon on his back, he turned to his left, to the dark grin on Jack's face.

"We'll show them galactic badness," he heard Jack mutter as the wormhole sped them off to safety.


End file.
